


Just Dreams

by BubblyCeci



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Good Guy Deaton, Kind Of Knotting, Kind of fluffy, M/M, Pack Equals Family, Papa Stilinski Is Just Worried, Psychic Stiles Stilinski, Sane Peter, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubblyCeci/pseuds/BubblyCeci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles starts to get vivid daydreams that might not exactly be just dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I jumped on the Magic!Stiles bandwagon. I'm weak. And I really love fluffy Steter.
> 
> Warnings: Not Beta'd, and this is my first ever foray Teen Wolf fandom. Any review would be lovely.

Just Dreams

 

            _The solid door- wood, oak, his mind supplied- slammed shut with a resounding thud, shaking the pale blue walls. Pictures- brunet child, couple sharing a longing look, beach sunset with the child grown and lanky and fit- fell off the shivering planes of blue and onto the wooden floor, glass breaking and spraying, catching on the brunet boy’s- young man’s- unprotected legs- lacerations, shallow, sluggish bleeding. The cup- mug, half-full of cold black coffee- tipped over the edge with the vibrations, staining the ground a murky brown._

_The man gasped out a pained breath, body wracking from something- sorrow, anger,_ hurt _. With stiff legs, he made his way over to the vacated chair- not the coffee drinker, a glass of orange juice in his place- and perched on the edge- fight-or-flight, freaked out, anxious, mind reeling. Another gasp- wet, tear-filled, god- and his head collapsed onto his folded arms- head buried, body shaking, salty water slipping down cheeks from whisky colored eyes._

            Those same eyes snapped open, slender body still upright from its position on the overstuffed couch in Derek’s modern loft’s living room but now heaving for breath. Around him, sprawled on the plush rug and each other- Peter on the stairs again, Derek standing before them all- various members of the pack regarded him with concern, and he shook his head to rid his mind of the images- not impossible, but improbable as hell, his imagination just ran away with him again. Giving them a small smile once he recovered, he focused his attention back on Scott as he knelt and bared his neck to Derek, submitting and joining their packs.

            He was proud of his friend. He had matured enough- given the past two years, who couldn’t have aged at least ten years- to realize that, yeah, he was a True Alpha, but, no, he didn’t have the experience or understanding to have his own pack. So they collaborated with the older Alpha, and with Scott’s submission, Beacon Hills’ two packs were one, under the shared leadership of the two.

            The thought made him giddy enough to push the still lingering flashes to the back of his mind, and he jumped from his seat to join the puppy pile. After a few moments of his puppies’ pleading, Derek joined in, his very presence soothing the last of the betrayed feeling- _goddammit, just a fantasy_. With a little more goading on his part, Peter crept closer and sat on the edge of their rug, his hand clasping Stiles’- just a different kind of fantasy, but it didn’t stop his heart from beating a bit faster.

 

TWTWTW

 

_The bed- sturdy, wood, new,_ theirs _\- creaked, groaning under their combined weight moving as it slammed into the grass green walls. Groans- yes, god,_ Stiles _\- and wanton pants and moans- Peter,_ please _, fuck- reverberated in the room- large, open, woodsy. The window-wall was covered in a brown curtain- thick, silky, light- but the lit candles- non-scented, darker green, long and short and thick and thin- bathed the area in a soft glow._

_The young man from before was lying on his back, legs tight around hips more broad than his- open, exposed, needy. The larger man was kneeling between them, leaning over the other, cock- thick, uncut, long, a starting to swell knot- gliding in and out of his body at a furious pace. A moment more, and the knot locked itself in the willing body, and the brunet man tilted his head to the side- submission, trust, so much_ trust _\- as he came with a keen, untouched, the off-white substance coating their chests. Another shallow thrust, and the older man released with a growl, blunt teeth clamping over the bared throat- passion, marking,_ his _\- even as clawed fingers gripped and tore thin sheets- no harm, love, care- and glowing blue eyes clenched shut._

            Stiles’ eyes flew open, thin lipped mouth slightly open and breaths coming in short pants. He adjusted his new hard-on, disguising the action as removing his belt loop from the drawer handle, as he registered his flushed reflection in the toaster, and he coughed once, a preemptive way to rid himself of his sure-to-be-husky-with-arousal voice. Shaking the daydream- just a goddamn _daydream_ , damn it all- and hormones away as best he could, he turned to face his father.

            He had been in the kitchen for a long while, if the dark circles under his eyes and unshaven jawline were any indication, and he had a mug of half-gone coffee on the edge by his hand. Something in his mind clicked, and he had a sudden flash of what he imagined at Derek’s the night before. His stomach twisted in painful knots. _No_.

            “You can’t keep doing this, Stiles,” his father rasped out, cradling his head in long fingered hands. Exhaustion coated every word, and his sheer frustration and disappointment were palpable. The stomach knot turned sharp and barbed. “Coming in late, bruised, twitchy… You have a machete in your desk drawer, and, goddammit, Genim, I’m worried. You’re acting like a junkie. Is that what you’re doing? Drugs?”

            “I’m not on anything,” he answered, tone defensive. Was this how the argument went in his fantasy, before what he saw- dreamed? This wasn’t enough to send him to tears, not by a long shot. Nothing his dad said could make him cry like in his dream. “I’m not in any ‘gang,’ either. Check my grades- still straight A’s, and I’m sure I couldn’t keep that up if I was rotting my brain with drugs. It’s just the extra lacrosse practice- Scott’s been _brutal_ since Jackson came back.”

            His dad snorted, and raised his head, grey eyes piercing right through him. His features, normally so soft when looking his way, were hard and pinched. He was angry, so very angry, and his hand slammed on the table as he jerked to his feet, making Stiles flinch. “Dammit, kid, I’m trying to help you! You think you know what you’re doing, lying and covering for who-fucking-ever, but let me tell you that they’re not going to do the same for you. They don’t care for you.”

            He stormed away from the table, him following, and he called a last parting shot over his shoulder before slamming the door. “I’m glad your mother isn’t here to see you acting like this. She’d be so disappointed.”

            He had been wrong. He had been so fucking wrong, so far off the goddamn mark- his dad knew how to hit him right where it hurt, where he was still tender. Choking on a gasp, he staggered over to his seat, mind reeling.

            His dad was wrong, too, though. The pack was family, more so than him, and they would be together for a long time. Packs didn’t just end or separate, they _died_ , and he was part of one- hell, they even joked about him being pack mom.

            The word mom caused him to shudder and place his head on his crossed arms as sobs wrenched his body. She wouldn’t be upset with him. She’d probably be damn proud of him, if he was honest. But that didn’t stop the ‘what if’s racing through his thoughts.

            Ten minutes later, he shook himself from his stupor and noticed the state of the room. Pictures on the floor, glass busted and spread across it, mixing with drying coffee in places. A glance at his legs showed shallow cuts, and he whined low in his throat. Maybe his dreams weren’t just daydreams after all.

            Checking the clock, he grabbed his keys and made his way out the door. He didn’t believe in coincidences anymore, and if he was crazy, Deaton would tell him. Probably.

 

TWTWTW

 

            He sat on the cold stool across from the vet and part-time supernatural expert, embarrassment making his cheeks flush pink. He was going to do it. He was going to come clean to a man he didn’t know well in the hopes that, maybe, his daydreams weren’t just that.

            Clearing his throat, he chanced a glance at Deaton. The man was looking thoughtful and patient, like he had all day for Stiles to waste spilling his guts about his thing, and he slid his eyes to focus on a spot over the man’s left shoulder. It would be hard enough to tell what happened- the contents of some dreams- without seeing judgment on his face.

            “It started when I was about six, I guess,” he began, hesitant because, yeah, he had a couple of the dreams when he was younger, but they weren’t anything like they were now. “They weren’t much, just a flash here and there of a surprise test in class or a trick one of the bullies wanted to pull on me. The only big one I can think of would be learning about my mom’s illness two days before _she_ found out. And they were few and far between, not like how they are now.”

            Another calming breath and he went on, tone clinical. “Ever since Scott got bit, they’ve become more frequent. Now, now I’m getting them _at least_ once a week- not all of them major, but there. Sometimes, I see myself having a ‘bro night’ with Scott and the rest of the guys. Other times, I see myself and P- I see me and someone else having _relations_. Completely consensual, incredibly loving, relations.”

            His voice wavered, and he blinked once, twice, before his tears cleared- the altercation with his dad was fresh in his mind, but he needed to tell the only one who could help him make sense of it all. “Last night, I saw the tail end of an argument between me and my dad. This morning, after another day dream thing, that argument happened, and the end was the same as what I saw. Almost all of these dream things have come true. Almost all of them, and I haven’t a clue as to what they are or how to focus them or what.”

            His whisky eyes slipped closed, and he concentrated on keeping his breathing deep and even. After a moment, he sighed and looked, for the first time since starting, at the man, expecting exasperation or even amusement- _so silly, Stiles, your imagination is just vivid_. Instead, the man’s face was lit up, as if he had the key to enlightenment dropped into his lap.

            “This explains so much,” he breathed, leaning forward. One of his large hands gathered Stiles’, and his big brown eyes twinkled with understanding. “You’re a spark, Stiles, I’ve told you before, and it’s probable that your involvement in Beacon Hills’ supernatural side made your talent grow. …Sparks are different for everyone. For some, it takes the form of telekinesis, and for others, it becomes an ‘I believe, therefore I can’ type of situation. For you, it has become focused on foresight. You can’t control it, but eventually, you should be able to sense when they’re going to come on.”

            Stiles nodded, taking in what the good doctor- vet, shaman, man, whatever- said. “I can sort of tell now. My hands kind of get shaky, and I feel dizzy for a second, maybe two, before I slip into one of- of my visions.” And wasn’t that word surreal. It was just a good thing he was used to odd shit happening to him. “Does that mean they’re all going to happen? Can I change them?”

            He hummed, tapping a random beat on his chin. His dark eyes were narrowed in concentration, and his serene face was clouded with genuine sorrow when they opened wide again. He admitted, “They should all happen at some point or another, and I don’t think you can change them. As I’ve never met someone whose spark acted like yours outside the occasional documentation from centuries ago, those are what I’m working off of. The last one was in nineteen-twelve, and as she died a week after the sinking of the Titanic of hypothermia contracted by trying to stop it, I really don’t think you can. And I wouldn’t try unless what you see is worth the possible consequences.”

            Again, Stiles nodded, this time in agreement. There was no way in hell he was going to try and change his future, especially since those nice visions looked like they were going to happen soon.

 

TWTWTW

 

_Blood dripped down long fingers, staining the dark ground beneath the figure- quaking, tearful. A gasp- shocked, pained,_ no, god, why _\- tore out of the wolf-like figure behind him, and a larger hand curved over the smaller man’s shoulder to feel the area around the wound- wet, blood-soaked, deep. The wolf man let loose a howl- saved, angry frustration, sorrow- before jerking the other down as the rest of the pack tore into the hunter with gusto._

_“Wolfsbane,” the younger man choked out, his own hand- crimson drying maroon already- to probe at the arrow embedded in his shoulder. His face- high cheekbones, upturned nose, sensually thin lips, whisky eyes- twisted in pain, and his breathing was unsteady but deep. He would live, unlike his companion would have if the hunter had managed to hit his target. “New strain, according to Allison’s intel, supposed to turn wolves rabid almost immediately after ‘injection.’ It won’t me.”_

_The wolfed out man changed- nose raising, eyebrows growing, sideburns disappearing, eyes flashing clear-water blue instead of sapphire- and he leaned over the lean body, taking his hand- steady, warm, alive. He let out a sigh as he dropped a quick kiss- chaste, reassurance,_ alive _\- to chapped lips._

_"Don’t ever do it again,” he ordered- requested- voice hoarse. They both knew he wouldn’t survive losing his everything a second- you only live once, the younger man liked to joke- time. Not sane, anyway, and he had elicited a promise from the others to put him down if it happened again._

_"Never again,” the younger promised. “This feels like shit. How do you guys manage to deal with getting shot all the time?”_

_Laughter- warm, relieved,_ thank god _\- bubbled from the elder’s mouth, and he leaned down to brush his nose against the other’s. “We heal faster than you, little red,” he teased- always teasing when things were okay- knowing his mate didn’t like the connotations- I eat you most of the time, Peter. But it was so easy to say because he did have a red hoodie- gag gift, Scott, memories of choruses of chuckles and giggles in a cold dark room lit only by a pine tree strewn with snowball light-bulbs in varying colors because Isaac had never had a real Christmas._

_“Show you who the big bad wolf is later,” was slurred as the brunet’s eyes closed from their half-lidded position. “Gonna t-take you d-down-“ he cut himself off with a yawn before going limp, dead to the world and making the werewolf roll his eyes._

           Stiles’ eyes fluttered open, and he let out a little laugh as he shook his head to rid it of the slight headache every vision seemed to provide. Giving his pack a little grin- secretive, way to go all Deaton on them- he stood from his place in the puppy pile and squeezed Peter’s hand once more before pulling his from the embrace. He patted Derek on the head once, dodged the half-hearted claw aimed his way, and stepped back.

           “I gotta go, guys,” he said, backing away and pulling on his light jacket. Early September, almost four months before Christmas, and he needed answers about the newest vision. “I have a couple questions for Deaton, and I need to hurry if I’m going to stop him before he leaves the office. Later!”

           The pack nodded and turned back to the ending of the movie Erica had picked for their movie night, and his grin widened at the picture of pack bonding. Just a few months ago, that hadn’t been possible. It faltered for a second when he caught sight of Peter’s questioning glance, and he shook his head, mouthing ‘tell you later’ before he was out the door.

           Two miles down the road to his house, he dug his phone out and pressed the number four- Peter, Derek, and Scott took up the first three speed dials. It rang twice before Deaton’s smooth tones answered. “Stiles, what can I do for you?”

           “I had another vision, and it left me with a few questions,” the young man admitted, shifting into second gear, mindful of the slight grind. At the man’s- his mentor’s- go ahead, he continued. “What is a mate to werewolves? What does the word mean, the position entail? And is it odd that I am starting to have memories in the visions? Like, remember things that haven’t happened while experiencing the future?”

           The man gave a laugh, and he heard a heavy door closing in the background. It was quiet on his end for a moment, then the man was answering in his usual serene way- so calm, he sometimes spoke to him just to feel peace. “I take it Pe- the man from your more sexual visions called you his?” Goddamn him, he knew who it was. “Mates, to werewolves, aren’t just sexual partners. They are what holds the wolf in check, they are what anchors the human side to reality. The submissive partners, often non-wolves themselves, are loved and cherished by all the pack because of the balance they bring their members, and they are protected just as much.”

           “Now, mating,” he continued after taking a breath, “is the forming of a consensual bond, a marriage, between wolf and partner. For werewolves and their partner, after the mating mark is placed, their mate is it, until death do they part. That’s why Peter was so crazed when he woke up the first time- he lost his anchor, his world. Often, pack can help lessen the blow, but he lost it all, both pack and mate. That’s also why he’s sane now- Derek accepted him, and he-.” He heard the man’s teeth clicking as he shut his mouth, cutting off the trail of words.

           Silence filled the air for a second, maybe two, before he spoke again, starting on the other questions, and Stiles fought off his disappointment. He knew what the other man had stopped himself from saying- had an inkling, at least- but he wanted to hear the reassurance that, yeah, he had a shot with Peter. His visions were great, but the ‘what if’s about the good ones being just dreams lingered.

          “As for the memories your future self has? Several accounts say that remembering things not yet to pass in visions are normal once the spark becomes more powerful. Congratulations, Stiles, your power is growing. Might I suggest telling your pack?”

          He snorted, pulling into his empty driveway. Darting into his house, he locked the door behind him. “Yeah, that would go well. ‘Hey, guys, you know how I’m the human? Turns out I’m a _powerful_ little human, and my spark allows me to see the future. Want to know what we’re having for lunch?’ Somehow, I think the reactions would be a bit much.”

          “Then tell them one at a time,” the man responded, sounding amused. “Why don’t you start with Peter?”

          “Goddammit, I knew you knew, you-!“ The line went dead in the middle of his cursing, and he grumbled a couple more into the still air as he shoved the phone into his pocket.

          Half an hour later, he pulled it back out and texted Peter. _‘Need to talk. Come over? Without Sourwolf, please.’_

          Half a second later, he got a return text. _‘Give me five minutes.’_

 

TWTWTW

 

          “So,” he started, twining and unwinding his fingers in his lap as he glanced at Peter. The man was cool, unruffled, and he spared a moment to wonder if it was a usual occurrence, him being asked into a male’s bedroom. He shook his head of that image before jealousy could flit through him. Focus.

          “What I’m going to tell you is important, okay? Can you keep what we talk about under wraps until everyone else knows?” he questioned, instead of going back to his horrible starter. At the man’s look- god, his ‘you’re an idiot’ look should not have been that _hot_ \- he nodded once. “Okay. So, I’m a spark, and my spark decided that I should be able to get visions of the future. Like, we’re talking full on movie scene visions, and I’ve been getting them at least once a week for the past year.”

          He looked up from where he had been holding his gaze- his bedspread wasn’t that interesting, if he was being honest- but when he looked at Peter, his blood ran cold. The man was frozen, expression unreadable, and his heart stuttered. No. He didn’t want- couldn’t handle- the man shuttered away like that. He needed him open and with him and laughing and teasing and, and… His breaths became pants, and he realized that he was panicking when his vision started to fade in and out.

          “P-Peter,” he gasped out, and then he was there, hand cupping his face and another dragging one of his own to the pulse point on his neck. At his encouraging, he matched their breathing, and after several minutes of pants and deepening breaths, he calmed. Hand still wrapped around the side of his mate’s- god, yes, he wanted that- neck, he spoke, voice quiet with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I just- your reaction was- and we’ve gotten really close these past few months, and I-I need you to be okay with me, this, because I- you’re my anchor. Whenever I get one that’s bad enough to make me shake afterwards with the need to change it _like I know I_ _can’t_ , I just… think of you, something funny you said or the last time we hung out or just-just you.”

          Oh, god, he admitted it. He admitted it in his usual, rambling way. Shit fuck. His breathing sped up again, but the soft hand still on his cheek squeezed, and he shuddered, back to earth.

          “I didn’t mean to make you think I am anything less than supportive,” Peter said, thumb stretching out to stroke over his cheekbone, and Stiles’ whisky eyes flashed open from where they had closed. “It was surprising, but it shouldn’t have been- you’ve always been a powerful man, and this just proves it. I am nothing less than proud, and the knowledge than I am your anchor, while not completely similar to the way you are mine, is humbling.”

          Stiles beamed and retracted his hand after a moment, standing. Pulling a bemused Peter to his feet, he dragged the man down the stairs and into the kitchen, pushing him into a chair as he started to hum and dig through the fridge. What was his favorite dish, again?

          “What are you doing?” the he finally questioned, head propped up against his hand as he watched the man putter around and gather various ingredients.

          “Cooking for you,” was his reply. Giving a victorious ‘ah’ as he found his large pot- leftovers were a godsend- he started filling it with water to boil. He set it on the burner, and continued, absentmindedly. “I wouldn’t be a very good candidate for a mate otherwise.”

          And then he froze as his words caught up with his brain. “Oh, fucking fuck,” he wailed, back still to Peter. His hands clenched into fists, and he resisted the urge to cry, blinking rapid. “Goddamn Deaton for putting that in my head, and goddamn those goddamn visions for showing me it!”

          He heard light footsteps approach, and his back tensed more as a hand- large, gentle- turned him to face the man. Keeping his head bowed, he allowed it, and he resisted for only a moment when the hand gripped his chin- gentle, still so gentle- to tilt his face up. His whisky eyes, darkened to near black with upset, met bright blue, darkened to almost grey with something- want, desire, need. The voice that came out of Peter’s mouth was a purr, all silk and satin and persuasion. “Can you repeat that?”

          “I-I,” he stuttered out, because was the man okay with his desire to become mate- lover, love, his? “I want to show I can be a good m-mate. I’ve had v-visions, you know, where I am- yours, that is- and I want it so _much_ , want to be yours, for as long as I physically can. I-I want to get to know you, fall in love with you, and-and I just…” His voice petered off, shy and unsure and devastated by a rejection that hadn’t happened yet.

          “Did you miss the part where I said you were my anchor earlier?” The question was soft, gentle like the hand still on his face that had moved to cup his cheek. When he didn’t respond, the slow flow of words continued. “Do you think I spend time with the other betas like I do you? Do you think I’m looking for less than that? Do you not notice how I must look at you?”

          The probing was blunt, and he couldn’t resist shaking his head in negative. Peter had a point. He never sat next to the others during pack movie night, and he never offered more comfort than needed unless Stiles was the one having a bad day- he always hogged him those days, cuddling and cracking jokes until he was half-laying on him while laughing. And he didn’t date, hadn’t even fucked around since being resurrected as far as he and Derek knew.

          “Then why were you so worried?”

          And wasn’t that just the question he had asked himself a million times over since the first vision? He had answers- so many- but none of them were what the man deserved to hear. They were the excuses, half-formed and only then because the possibility of them coming together was limited to maybe someday. He deserved better than them, so he decided on the truth.

          “I was scared,” he blurted, eyes flickering away and back. He noticed the man tense and step away, and his arms shot out, wrapping around his neck and locking him in close. He needed him, and now that he had a chance, he wasn’t letting it go. “Not of _you_ , but- give me a rogue wolf out for my blood, and I’ll rush into danger to save my pack, but give me a vision about a caring and attractive older male being my mate, and I shake with nerves and make up enough excuses to drown a fish while getting as close as I can all the same. Peter, I was so scared of messing up, of making you not want me, and I didn’t think- don’t think- I can handle that, even now.”

          “You don’t have to worry about that.” Peter stepped back into his space, crowding him against the counter, and his other arm snaked around his waist, tugging him flush against the older man’s chest. Blue and brown locked again, the air electric. “I have no intention of letting you go.”

          And then they were kissing.


End file.
